


Redamancy

by Renxzs



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst, F/M, Fluff, Mutual Pining, Roommates, Sexual Themes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:20:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23266108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renxzs/pseuds/Renxzs
Summary: Redamancy (n): the act of loving the one who loves you; a love returned in full.Roommate AU - Maybe it was a bit naive to think moving in with your best friend and long-time crush, Bucky Barnes, was going to be some smooth road that led to an admittance of mutual feelings for one another and a happily-ever-after ending, wrapped up nicely in a bow.Naive indeed; especially when you have to consider the fact that Bucky is the biggest womanizer you know.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	Redamancy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as an entry for Marvelfulxbabes' writing challenge on Tumblr! My entry prompt was "Roommate AU".
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](https://renxzs.tumblr.com)!

You stare blankly at the ceiling above you, having been awake long enough for your eyes to adjust to the darkness.

_Thud. Thud. Thud._

Lifting the phone that was settled facedown on your chest, you squint blearily at the time. 2:17am. An indignant sigh heaves from your lips and a scowl is etched into your features.

_Thud. Thud. Thud. Thud._

The steady tempo of the sound--wood frame meeting drywall--grows erratic and increases in speed.

There is a deep, sick churning in the pit of your stomach and your breaths are unsteady. You swallow thickly against the growing lump in the back of your throat. Teeth bite into your bottom lip painfully as a wave of emotions clamor and claw their way up through your chest, demanding to be felt, released--the onslaught nearly suffocating.

Heartache sits heavily in your chest, and it takes a little more effort than usual to shove it back in its box--to compartmentalize it--before the ache can further blossom and seep; throb within your bones, prick and tingle in the tips of your limbs.

Eyes squeeze shut as the hot sting of tears threaten to fall. You roughly press the heel of your palms against your eyes in frustration. A deep breath is dragged in through the small parting of your lips in an attempt to steady your heart and clear your head. You were being foolish. He wasn't yours to cry over. He wasn't yours, _period._

And that’s where the problem lies within the glaring truth of the situation: Bucky isn't yours.

He was free to bring home whatever willing woman he happened across while out with Sam and Steve. And tonight he did just that.

You shift under the covers and curl up on your side, placing your phone facedown on the nightstand with a pathetic inward groan. It wasn’t often, with everyone’s busy schedules, that the whole group managed to get together to go out for a night. However, tonight was one of those nights, and guilt had filled you when you chose to pass on seeing your friends--

A low muffled groan sounds through the wall and your features consequently pinch up as a momentary pang throbs in your chest once more and tears prick at the back of your eyes. 

\--but _this_ was exactly what you were trying to avoid. Yet here you are, near 2:30am, wide awake and alone; pitifully miserable, and being taunted by the sounds of the man your heart ached for fucking someone else. A knife to the heart, really.

You hunker further into the soft plushness of bedding, seeking any form of comfort you can latch onto. Fingers tug at the edges of the duvet to pull it around yourself tightly to block out the cool air of the room and everything else outside the four walls of your bedroom.

You let out a heavy breath. Yes, you felt guilty turning down the boys’ offer earlier that day, choosing to stay home instead. A barely-there smile touches your lips briefly, thinking how Sam and Bucky always mercilessly poked fun at one another--albeit, lovingly--and how you and Steve were always smirking over beer glasses at their antics, eventually shifting your conversation to how things were progressing between him and Peggy or whatever else was going on in your lives at the moment.

The soft half-smile on your lips slowly melts back into an impassive line. By the end of the night though, you knew the inevitable was bound to happen; it usually played out the same. Bucky's attention would be pulled by a pair of flirty batted eyelashes, roaming hands that were as bold as the stifling perfume she would be wearing, and full lips that were glossed to the max.

You would then find yourself crammed in the backseat of a cab with Bucky and his conquest of the night, fighting back bile, the alcohol in your stomach suddenly feeling as bitter as the taste on your tongue at the sight of her hand inching higher and higher up his thigh. That, or you would cooly play it off that you weren't ready to turn in for the night just to avoid a shared cab ride home with Bucky and whatever girl was latched onto his arm, even though, in all honestly, you were exhausted as fuck and wanted nothing more than to be curled up in your bed.

In the case of the latter scenario, Sam and Steve never failed to look at you with the saddest eyes, though warm smiles still played on their lips--an effort to mask the utter pity they most likely felt for you--when you sat slumped at the bar just a little longer to wait out Bucky’s evening romp back at the apartment. Gracious as always, the boys never pushed you to talk about it; for that, you were grateful. Nothing like discussing how pathetically in love you were with your best friend to two of your other _shared_ best friends.

Unwilling to stomach either scenario, you had politely turned down tonight's invite out, claiming you needed a quiet evening in after a week from hell at work. Mentions of understanding and oversized hugs soon followed, then Sam and Steve were out the front door. With a parting kiss to the forehead and a chuckled “don't have too much fun, doll,” Bucky was gone, too, a moment later. 

In all honesty, the quiet night in actually ended up being just what you needed, having enjoyed two glasses of red as some cliche Netflix rom-com played in the background. The sweet hazelnut cream scent of your favorite candles had filled your bedroom as they burned, and the flickering firelight danced on the walls of your dimmed bedroom. Between lightheartedly scoffing at the cheesy movie playing on the TV and firing off sarcastic texts to Nat about the laughable state of your own love life, your spirits seemed to have gradually lifted.

Slowly you had nodded off, mind and heart at peace for a short while. Living with your best friend has proven to be far more difficult than you initially anticipated--far more emotionally taxing. Sure, you didn’t expect it to always be perfect, but you also didn’t expect to feel this _exhausted_ as often as you did.

The heart could only take so much unrequited love before it was sure to shrivel up, grey and dark, and dust away to nothing more, starved of a love it so desperately yearned for. 

The sharp sound of a bedroom door being kicked shut had jolted you awake, ripping you from the warmth of temporary peace. Groggily blinking the sleep from your eyes, you were only disoriented for a moment before the familiar low muffled tones of Bucky’s voice could be heard through the shared wall of your bedrooms. Your heart had plummeted as the reality of the situation sunk in; and another shriveled up piece began to crumble away.

The now deafening silence of the apartment pulls you from the inner thoughts you had fallen deep into. It was finally quiet again, your personal hell having ended for the night. A relieved sigh falls from your lips and your eyes droop heavily with an exhaustion you can feel in your bones before you are once again pulled into a dreamless sleep.

***

You are in a particularly foul mood this morning as you sit perched on a stool at the kitchen bar. Your shoulders slump forward while you stare unseeingly into the steaming mug of coffee nestled between your hands. Bucky takes notice of your sour demeanor, eyes continually falling back to you, gaze swimming with concern as he flips another pancake.

Already having shut down his attempts at conversation, silence falls between the two of you save the spatula scraping against the hot skillet. You slowly bring the mug up to your lips and take a long sip, allowing the liquid to spread and warm you; praying the caffeine will kick in soon and give you the needed energy to make it through this day.

A throat clears next to you and your eyes slide to the right to take in Bucky standing close by. He has on your favorite pair of black sweatpants that hang on his hips _just right_ and a grey cotton tee that is a size too small but he always insists on wearing. Of course, you never complain. Gah-- _damn_ him! Why does he have to look so effortlessly good in the morning? Especially when you’re trying to be pissed at him.

Eyes tear away from his chest and your gaze falls to the plate in his hand that is stacked full of chocolate chip pancakes. He clears his throat once more, perhaps a bit nervously, pulling your attention up to his face, which is painted with an apprehensive grin.

He sets the plate down in front of you. “Made your favorite.”

The sweet smell of melted chocolate chips wafts in the air and makes your mouth water. A finger twitches against the hot ceramic encased by your hands as you fight the urge to reach for the plate. Bucky makes the _best_ pancakes and he knows they’re your favorite. But you’re not ready to give in to his charm just yet, so all you offer in response is a quirked brow as you quietly eye the plate in front of you before flickering your gaze back to him.

He drops heavily onto the stool next to you and drags a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m _really_ sorry.” Your eyebrows raise in surprise at his apology. Bucky turns on the stool to better face you.

“I woke up feeling awful this morning, realizing how loud we must‘a been coming in last night.” He shook his head softly before racking a hand through his unruly chestnut locks. He dips his chin before peeking up, icy blue eyes catching yours as he smiles at you sheepishly. “I, uh, had a bit more to drink than I should’ve with the guys. You know how I get...” he says with a low chuckle.

You bite your lip as your eyes fall back to the cooling coffee in front of you. Bucky is quick to speak again. “Not that it makes it okay! I just-- I’m sorry, doll. I’m a shit roommate and a shit best friend--”

“You are not a shit best friend, Buck,” you finally say. Sure, he’s unknowingly stomped your heart into the ground repeatedly, but that doesn’t make him a bad _friend_. It just makes him clueless and you a coward for never saying anything. You huff a sigh as your resolve begins to crumble. “Your roommate etiquette still has room for improvement though...” a slow smirk tugs on your lips.

Bucky instantly breaks into a grin and nods as the tension melts away from his frame, relieved to get the white flag of truce from you. “I couldn’t agree more. Promise I’ll do better, doll. Cross my heart and all.” 

You hum in acknowledgement while pulling the plate of pancakes in front of you. “Now give me a fork before these get cold.”

Bucky tips his head back with a hearty laugh as he stands on the rung of his stool and reaches across the bar top to snag two forks out of the utensil drawer. He loves how much you enjoy his cooking, especially how open you are about it. He watches with a soft smile as you drizzle syrup across the fluffy stack of sweet goodness, always careful to keep the stickiness contained to your plate.

You cut through the stack of pancakes and bring a forkful to your mouth. A blissful moan rumbles behind your lips as you chew happily.

“Good?”

“The _best_ ,” you say vehemently as you cut off another bite then push the plate towards Bucky to share.

He picks up his own fork and plucks up a piece of pancake from the plate. His eyes linger momentarily on your lips as you happily chew another bite. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your temple before joining in on the sugary breakfast.

“Good.”

***

The rest of breakfast proceeds like any other day, it being easy to fall back into the step of your friendship. Bucky recounted in the utmost explicit detail how Sam had a few too many drinks the night before and somehow got his hands on the karaoke microphone. You were _almost_ sorry you missed such a sight, but your ears had been spared without a doubt. Sam has many great qualities: a kind heart, a great smile, a healthy dose of snark to his sense of humor… but a pleasant singing voice is not one of them. 

The time spent with Bucky gradually lightens your mood, the morning’s sourness nearly forgotten. Your laughter trills throughout the kitchen space and your side aches in the best way. A goofy smile adorns his lips, eyes crinkled in the corners. His gaze never strays from you. Unwelcome flutters dance in your belly and your eyes fall to the faux granite island top, unable to withstand the heat of his gaze any longer. Teeth drag across your bottom lip as you slip off the barstool and gather up the dirty dishes and cooking utensils that litter the counter and stove.

Bucky remains seated as his eyes shamelessly follow your movements in the small kitchen space. Lips settle into a soft smile as you get lost in thought while completing your task. Minutes pass before Bucky slinks up next to you, arms casually crossed over his chest and lower back leaned against the counter in a comfortable silence. You are elbow deep in suds, scrubbing clean the last of the dishes as you fulfill a previously established agreement: whoever cooks is excused from dish duty. Pushing the sink handle up with the top of your wrist, a steady stream begins to flow out the nozzle again. You quietly rinse the final dish, shake the excess water from it, and place it in the drying rack to your right. Bucky snags a clean towel and tosses it to you to dry your hands with. You offer a smile of gratitude as you make your way over to wipe down the island.

“So,” he draws out, “you wanna veg out with me today and watch some god-awful movies?” You don’t have to look up to see the knowing smile etched on his face and the inevitable wiggle of his brows as he tries to peak your interest.

A smile creeps onto your lips. Hunkering down on the couch with Bucky, surrounded by too many snacks and laughing at cheesy movies sounds like the perfect Saturday in all honesty. Movie binging sessions always led to getting _real_ cozy with one another, though; his fingers absentmindedly smoothing through the ends of your hair and you snuggled up against him.

Your teeth bite into the plumpness of your bottom lip, mulling over his offer. You slowly pad over to the trashcan and shake crumbs out from the rag you had just wiped the counters down with, stalling to produce an answer.

The thought of turning down his offer sends a pang through you, chest hollow and yearning for your _best friend_. Lounging around together without a care, talking about everything and nothing, simply enjoying one another’s company--you’ve not gotten that type of quality time with one another in so long, and you miss it terribly. However, simultaneously, your heart aches deeply, yearning for _Bucky_. The kind of ache that blossoms from an unrequited love; debilitating and doubling over with loss of something that was never yours to begin with. It swallows you into empty, lonely nothing.

Movements slow and deliberate, you hang the towel on the oven handle with your back to Bucky. He _must_ sense your hesitance and your stomach is sinking, decision already made.

You can’t.

Your heart cannot withstand enduring a day holed up on the couch with him, falling prey to the illusion that maybe, _just maybe_ , you and Bucky could have more than friendship. Not while the freshly torn-open wounds of your heart are still exposed and weeping from the previous night. No, you needed time to yourself for healing; to regenerate and mend, to sew the tender and frayed pieces of yourself back together once more--a little less perfect each time, a little less whole. But no longer would you be in pieces, and sometimes that is as good as it can get.

You clear your throat, aware your silence has stretched on a bit too long. Body now facing him, you force your eyes to slowly crawl up the length of Bucky’s body until you finally meet his gaze. Lips gently tug up at the corners to offer him a small smile--anything to soften your decline of his offer--and shake your head. “Sorry, Buck, but I uh- I really need today to finish that project for work or Tony is going to have my ass.” That wasn’t exactly a _lie_.

That natural glow and energy to Bucky dims momentarily as his features falter--the curve of his smile begins to fall into a line; the crinkles in the corners of his eyes fade away; a little ridge forms between his brows that you fight to not smooth away with your thumb; the light dulls in those icy blues. Another beat later and Bucky snaps back, natural glow and energy seemingly intact. You blink, wondering if you had simply imagined his momentary disappointment.

Bucky pushes off the counter’s edge and saunters forward to lean across the island top on his elbows, that enticing sparkle in his eye and lilt in his tone in a sure attempt to get you to buckle, “Awwh, c’mon, doll. _Please_? When’s the last time we’ve made fun of bad movies together?”

You fidget with your hands and shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure of what to do with yourself, desperately just wanting out of this situation and to seek the shelter your room was sure to provide. You offer a halfhearted shrug, a rueful smile playing on your lips. “I’ll have to take a raincheck this time, Buck.”

The fall of his features cannot be mistaken this time, and guilt swirls low in your belly at the sight. He straightens his posture, gaze boring into you, uncertain, studying you. “Did I...do something?”

Words tumble from your mouth a little too quickly and you curse yourself for it, “No, not at all.” A tight smile back on your lips.

Bucky’s gaze steadily follows as you move closer to the archway leading out of the kitchen and further away from him. “Yea, okay.” He clears his throat and throws a thumb in the direction of the living room. “I’ll uh- I’ll be out here watching movies if you change your mind.”

You nod before taking the final step out of the kitchen. Your feet carry you across the small apartment to the safety of your bedroom, resting your back against the door once it’s securely closed. A physical representation of the feeling of separation between you and Bucky at that moment. A long, shaky breath dispels from deep within your lungs. With a soft _thump_ , your head lolls back against the wood of the door and your eyes fall shut.

As wrong as it feels, this is the right thing to do for _you_. At least that is what you’ll keep telling yourself.

***

The week passes by uneventfully and you go about your days as normal as possible. The work project Tony expected from you was very real and served as a sufficient distraction from the awkward dance your personal life was turning into. Interactions with Bucky have been sparse, which has only deepened the growing sense of separation and distance between the two of you. His gaze lingers on you longer whenever you emerge from the sanctuary of your room to retrieve some type of sustenance or to leave for errands or work. You feel it, his gaze, burning into your back and simmering through your veins while you lousily attempt to be inconspicuous; feel the unasked questions that hang thickly in the air around you.

_Did I do something wrong?_

_Are you okay?_

_Are we okay?_

It’s heavy. Not as heavy as the guilt sinking in your gut, though. Hurting him or making him feel bad isn’t your intention. You just needed some space, a little time. Thought maybe that was the answer, the magic remedy to the perpetual pinning rooted deep in your chest, thorny vines entwined tightly and intricately around every major artery, snaking down into your bones.

 _Time heals everything_ \--isn’t that what they always say? Maybe it’s a bunch of bullshit.

Because you sure as hell don’t feel healed.

The rumble of heavy glass drags across the wood shelf of a cabinet as you strain to pull down a bottle of bourbon. If anything, time be damned, the smooth burn of a good liquor and the blanket of numbness it so graciously provides to cozy up in never fails to do the trick. For a little while at least. 

A small grunt sounds in the back of your throat as both feet securely plant to the floor again, large bottle in hand. Success. Retrieving a drinking glass proves to be a much easier task. Fingers deftly uncap the bottle and you pour two fingers worth of the amber liquid into your glass, hastily tossing it back a moment later. The burn is familiar, comforting. Something to focus your attention on. Without a thought, the glass is replenished.

Chest expands as you drag in a deep breath, eyes drifting close momentarily, before air rushes out past your lips. If only you could push the sadness out just as easily. Glass and bottle in hand, you trudge towards the living room, not bothering to flip on any of the lighting fixtures strategically placed around your living space. Lamps you and Bucky dedicated an entire afternoon one weekend picking out together. He had insisted on taking you shopping to find trinkets and whatever other _overlooked treasures waiting to be discovered_ , as he had proclaimed, to decorate your newly shared apartment with. He wanted to ensure it felt like _your place_ , too.

Why does he always have to be so _good_? 

You drop unceremoniously to the couch with a long sigh, practically tortured, entirely pathetic. The bottle clanks as it meets the coffee table, still within reach. You bring the drinking glass to your lips and swallow down a generous glup, pondering why you even bothered with a glass to begin with.

Living with Bucky wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to _feel_ like this. Though, you weren’t entirely sure what you were expecting. Loving a best friend who only views you as just that-- _a best friend_ \--is exhausting, excruciating, maddening.

To cut that part of your heart out and be free of _everything_ that has weighed you down, placed unintentional strains on your friendship with Bucky over the last several months; to no longer have words of admittance and truth die on your tongue, far too scared to express them, leaving behind bitter taste… how freeing that could be.

But you are a coward. Too scared to share your feelings with Bucky. The glass finds its way to your lips once more and you drain it of its contents. You reach for the bottle on the coffee table, movements beginning to feel a little lighter and your face a bit flushed--both tell signs of the bourbon coursing through you.

Amber liquid splashes into the glass, sloshing against the edges; trapped--just like you felt in this less than ideal situation.

You knock back the entire contents of the glass once more, eyes tightly squeezed shut and a small grimace in your features. Tongue heavy, darts out across your bottom lip to catch a stray droplet and then you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand for good measure. Thoughts are clearing and fuzzing at the edges all at once, and your body pricks with the slightest tingles just beneath the skin’s surface.

Eyes flicker around the dim room that is littered with evidence of your friendship with Bucky. Pictures decorate the walls and bookshelf, some with just the two of you, others with your friends and families. Always side-by-side in each, nonetheless. Head lolling to the side, your gaze settles on the empty cushion next to you. _Well, not so much anymore_.

A heavy breath heaves through your nose and your eyes avert from the reminder that you are sitting alone--by your own doing--drinking away your sorrows, which is _not_ doing the trick this time around. What a fabulous Friday night.

You groan internally before reaching for the bottle once more. Topaz liquid pours and swirls into the glass and for a second you get lost in the motion of it, your brain desperately grabbing on to anything in its inebriated state that could pull your thoughts back to Bucky and the pretty gold flecks that mix in with the deep azure blue of his eyes when sunlight hits them just right.

You slump back against the couch with your glass in hand, idly wondering what Bucky was doing at the moment. Drinking himself, sure, but surrounded by the laughter of friends and too loud music, the smell of stale smoke, and whatever else a bar inhabits. You could be there, too, enjoying a night out with friends. God knows you could use it instead of sulking around at home, drowning in lonely solitude and whatever liquor that happens to be sitting closest on the shelf. Your nose wrinkles at the thought, sounding like a sad drunk.

Your head falls back to rest against the plush cushion and eyes drift close as a finger slowly traces the rim of the glass in your hand. Quiet solitude--albeit lonely and a beacon for all unwanted thoughts of Bucky and the many reasons you can’t have him--is better than witnessing first-hand Bucky on the prowl.

Muffled voices, laughter and the clanking of keys down the hall outside your front door pull you from your thoughts. Your stomach plummets immediately, a rush of nausea and nerves shooting through you. Mind foggy with alcohol slows your reflexive thinking; you take too long deciding if you should take cover in the safety of your bedroom before whatever awaits on the other side of the front door comes barreling in.

Keys clank against the door and the metallic shifting within the lock tells you it's too late, and suddenly tinny giggles fill the room, piercing through the comfort bubble of your home. Muscles seize up with an intermixing of tension and dread while your skin pricks from the direct proximity of Bucky and the giddy blonde hanging off his arm.

A crease of concern is pinched between Bucky’s eyebrows when he notices you slumped on the couch, only the soft glow of the bulbed lights strung above the balcony coming in through the sliding glass door illuminates the room. Your fingers are wrapped around a glass that rests against your leg. Bucky's eyes travel from the glass to the bottle of bourbon sitting on the coffee table in front of you and quirks a brow in question.

You faintly hear Bucky murmur something to his lay of the night before ushering her down the short hall, towards his bedroom you presume.

A moment later, the couch dips next to you under Bucky's weight.

“Doll, you okay?” His voice hesitant, laced with evident concern.

Shoulders lift to a noncommittal half-shrug and you mumble an “I’m fine” before raising the glass to your lips. The burn of the liquid down your throat gives you something to focus on rather than the man next to you and _how fucking good_ he smells or the warmth radiating from his close proximity.

Bucky says your name pointedly. The man knows you far too well for your own good, able to easily parse through your flimsy attempt at reassurance. So desperately, time after time, you've tried to feed yourself that same lie, that you're _fine_.

But you aren’t fine, and saying so never convinced you to believe it. So how did you expect Bucky to?

“Clearly you’re not fine,” he says as his eyes fall to the nearly empty glass in your hand. He reaches out slowly and gingerly pulls the glass from your grasp. After placing it onto the coffee table he settles back next to you. “C’mon, talk to me.”

You nod your head towards the hall. “ _She's_ waiting,” barely able to bite back the bitterness in your tone.

“And she can continue to wait. You're more important, doll.” He shifts closer and the smell of him overwhelms your senses--notes of vanilla and cedar, and a hint of whiskey on his breath.

Bucky’s thumb softly drags over the warm skin atop your hand. Slowly--against your better judgement--your eyes begin to slide shut, heavy with the exhaustion of putting on a facade for so long, of trying to convince yourself that being _just friends_ wasn't slowly chipping away at you; sleep deprived from the nights heartache disguised itself as insomnia. His gentle touches lure you into a false sense of comfort. Just for a moment it's you and him.

A soft sigh escapes your lips and you revel in the quiet shared between the two of you. You miss this, miss _him_. You’re nearly lost in the illusion of it all before sounds of someone fumbling around in the next room--Bucky's room--rips you back to the present, your eyes snapping open at the whiny muffled call of his name.

Bucky senses the shift in you but doesn’t react quick enough, your hand already snatched from him before he can grab on to you. In a blur you are on your feet, putting the coffee table between the two of you. You ignore his outstretched hand and take a few seconds to steady yourself, to wade through the fuzzy haze of your head. The bourbon coursing through you had the room turning and you feeling overly warm... maybe the latter had less to do with the amber liquid and more so with the fact that the man you were in love with has a woman waiting in his room who wasn't you.

The thought is pushed away with a subtle shake of the head, your nails dragging across your scalp as you rack a hand through your hair. You vaguely register your name being called after you, Bucky’s voice sounding dejected. But your heart hurt and _you_ were dejected, and you needed this moment to just feel it, to let the ache consume you and seep deep. There was no more energy left in you to fight it tonight, and maybe if you didn't you would have enough strength come tomorrow morning to shove all back down and secure it shut with a soft smile.

So, even though every inch of your body screams with each step you take down the hall, further away from Bucky sounding so sad--instincts wanting to kick in and be the consoling best friend once more--your fingers numbly push open your bedroom door and then close again behind you.

Peeling back the comforter, you ease into bed, body heavy and not feeling like your own. The warmth of the liquor sloshes low in your belly and your eyes ache as you curl onto your side and stare at nothing.

Muffled sounds through the door fill the quiet. You can’t make out the words being exchanged and you don't try to. Hot tears, one after another, silently roll down the slope of your nose and side of your face into the cotton of your pillow. You let out a shaky breath at the sound of a door latching. Fingers curled in the soft blanket, you pull it tighter and burrow further into the plush materials encasing you, seeking out whatever comfort you can latch onto.

The apartment falls quiet save for soft sniffles. A few moments pass before a light knock sounds against your bedroom door and it creaks open. The gentle call of your name cuts through the silence. The sound of Bucky’s voice, low and gentle, inexplicably causes your nose to burn with a fresh wave of tears threatening to fall at any moment. Your lower lip wobbles with barely contained emotion, and you sink your teeth into it in an attempt to steady yourself; ease your heart.

Feet pad softly to the side of the bed, and the mattress groans at the shift in weight as Bucky eases in next to you.

His weight and warmth simultaneously ground you and throw your emotions into overdrive. He is _here_ ; chose to be with you over whatever plans awaited him in his bedroom. Gratitude and love awash you, seeping into the deep cracks of your wounded heart. When you most need your best friend he is here, and you are so _grateful_. A soft whimper slips out despite your efforts and a choked cry escapes your trembling lips.

“Oh, _doll_.” Bucky’s voice is one of a broken man, heart clenching at the sight of you. He gathers you up in his arms and holds on tightly, a silent promise to never let go. Sobs rack through your chest--the kind that make it hard to breathe--while the soft cotton of his tee crumples under the white-knuckle grip of your fist and hot salty tears soak between your fingers into his shirt.

Bucky presses a kiss to your head, murmuring into your hair, “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.” He rubs slow, soothing circles into your back. Your whole body shakes beneath his touch as it works to dispel everything you’ve kept pent up inside--pain, heartache, guilt, self-doubt. No longer having the energy to put up a fight, you allow it to happen--let the facade of _fine_ crumble and fall apart in a heaping weepy mess--because Bucky’s arms are warm, strong, and wrapped tightly around you and he’s whispering that he’s got you, that everything will be okay, over and over again. A mantra of a promise that things will be better than in this moment, and maybe they will.

***

You drag in a breath, eyes flickering against the pale light of dawn peeking through the slit of curtains that were not quite pulled all the way shut the night before. There is a dull throbbing in your head and behind your eyes. You groan inward, regretting the decision to drown your sorrows in bourbon and nuzzle closer into the solid warmth in front of you. The familiar mingling mixture of vanilla and cedar infiltrates and seeps deep within your chest, luring you back to the surface of consciousness and away from the depths of dreamless sleep.

Bucky senses your stirring and pulls back just enough to catch a glimpse of your face. His eyes are tired and swimming with concern as they flicker across your face. Your gaze falls to his chest as embarrassment over last night’s episode begins to creep up within you, unable to look him in the eyes. Blood rushes to your cheeks while fingers fidget with the cotton of his shirt and teeth worry at your lower lip. Your tongue feels thick, unsure of what to say. Aching eyes fall shut, heavy, puffy, and red rimmed, you’re sure.

“Hey…” Bucky gently ghosts a thumb across your cheekbone. He ducks his head a little to catch your gaze and your eyes slowly lift to meet his. “What happened?” The timbre of his voice low as he speaks softly, “What had you so upset?”

Earnest concern for you is evident in his tone, etched into his features--it makes your chest tighten. You’re shocked when a fresh wave of unshed tears sting at the back of your eyes, certain you had cried yourself dry through the night. Blinking tears back to clear your vision, you softly shake your head. The facade fractured and exhausting to maintain, you couldn’t do it anymore, energy depleted.

“I- I couldn’t do it anymore,” you finally said, vocalizing your thoughts.

Bucky shifts closer if that’s even possible and his intense gaze that bores through you makes you nervous, like you’re being watched closely under a microscope. His eyebrow twitches in a way that tells you he still doesn’t understand. “Do what anymore?” he breathes out, kind eyes searching yours.

You don't realize a tear has slipped free until Bucky’s thumb drags softly against your cheek to wipe it away. His lips curve downward into a frown and the worry lines in his face prominent, sorrowful. Silence looms between you as he patiently waits for your answer.

A shaky breath is dragged in through parted lips as you work up the nerve to speak the words that have been dying on the tip of your tongue for months now. “I couldn’t watch you bring home another girl… _listen_ to you be--” You swallow hard against the lump in your throat and shake your head, “I just couldn’t do it again.”

Bucky’s brows scrunch together in confusion as he parses through your words. Your name is a gentle utterance from his lips and your watery gaze lifts to meet his once more. The pad of his thumb sweeps across your cheek again and wipes away hot tears that have spilled over. “I don’t--” brows still knit together, he slowly shakes his head.

Burgeoning heartbeats thrum in your chest and pulse in your ears, hands clammy from nerves; your grip tightens around the soft cotton of his tee. “I love you, Bucky.” Your voice is soft, low with reservation of how he may react--but sure; _so_ sure of your feelings for him. “I’m _in love_ with you.”

Eyes widen and his mouth slackens with shock at your admittance, thumb stilling its soothing motion against your cheekbone. Breath is caught in your throat and you anxiously await for any type of response from him aside from the stunned, gaping look his features are contorted in. Your heart sinks further than you thought possible with the prolonged silence hanging heavy between you, and you begin to shift back away from Bucky, away from the creeping humiliation and rejection.

Bucky doesn’t allow for you to move away, his arm underneath you curling up to settle against your back and the other hand still gently cupping the side of your face. Dusky pink lips curl into a slow smile and eyes sparkle with rejuvenated light. Your heart is beating a mile a minute and you attempt to decipher Bucky’s response. Does he think this is a joke? Is the mere idea of you being in love with him that laughable?

An incredulous chuckle, breathy and low, pulls you from your inner thoughts to see Bucky shaking his head. “Oh, doll…” Your heart swells with the unmistakable adoration in his eyes and it fills you with a warmth that allows you to take a steadying breath. Your heart dares to beat with newly ignited hope. Bucky’s eyes dance over your face as if he’s committing every detail of this moment to memory, deep azure eyes and honey gold flecks so pretty in the morning light. His hand smooths down your neck to allow his thumb to brush across your barely parted lips. “ _I’m_ in love with _you_.”

The onslaught of emotion burns through you, simultaneously overwhelming and absolutely wonderful. Tears well in your eyes once more but you can’t bring yourself to care because for once they’re happy tears; elation tears, even. Throat tight with so much you want to say, all you can manage is to choke out a wet laugh. A shaky hand reaches up and your fingers ghost over the dark scruff along his cheekbone and down his jaw. “You love me?”

Bucky’s grin is blinding as he nods ardently. His hand runs down the slope of your neck up to your shoulder, traveling across your extended arm to gently grasp your hand in his. Gingerly he places kisses against your fingertips, murmuring against them. “I love you.”

He shifts closer to you and the rustle of your crumpled bed sheets fills the room. You feel your heartbeat pick up and you’re sure he can feel it, too, with chests pressed so closely together. Bucky’s forehead rests against yours and his eyes fall shut momentarily.

“I’m so sorry,” voice barely above a whisper. You feel the slight shake of his head and he slowly trails a large hand up the column of your neck and rests beneath the jawline. He absentmindedly runs a thumb along the sensitive patch of skin just below your ear in a soothing caress. “I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t’ve--” his fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair. “I hurt you so many times… I just-- I didn’t think you felt the same, so I did--” he huffed an indignant sigh. “I was so stupid. Doll, I didn’t--”

You press your lips to his and he’s stunned only for a moment before his lips move gently against yours in response, all soft and pliant.

“I know,” you murmur against his lips, breaking the kiss. Hot breath fans across your skin sending a shiver straight down your spine. Fingers reach out to card through his sleep mussed locks. His scent, his warmth, his love--all encompassing and comforting--it has you on a dizzying high. Nose bumps against his and you tilt your head up to capture his lips once more.

Soft moans pass between lips and Bucky gently eases you onto your back and moves to hover over you, never breaking the kiss, bodies touching in more places than not; you keen at the weight of him pressed against you. His tongue runs along the seam of your lips and you eagerly part them to welcome him in, tongue dancing against yours, deepening the kiss. And god was it a good kiss--the _best_ kiss. The kind that unfurls in your stomach and curls in your toes. 

So much warmth floods through you, overflows and seeps into every broken crevice that’s splintered over the past months, beginning the mending of your dilapidated heart. Nourishing it with his touch, the press of his lips, his requited love. You can’t help but smile at the thought, which doesn’t go unnoticed by Bucky. He leans back to better look at you, putting his weight on the forearm settled next to your head. A giddy smile has taken over his features that mirrors the one on your own lips.

“What?” tone mirthful and light.

Your smile stretches wider, “All this time--” your head shakes in disbelief, “...we are idiots.”

Bucky breathes out a hearty chuckle and wraps his arms around you tightly as he falls back against the mattress, bringing you with him. “Well, as long as we’re idiots together.”

You hum in agreement as you curl against his chest with your face nuzzled into his neck, relishing in the scratch of his scruff on your soft skin. Long fingers run through the ends of your hair and mindlessly massage into your scalp, and your heart aches once more; such a beautiful, good ache at the familiarity of his touch, the safety and comfort it brings.

You revel in his closeness--to have him solid and warm and _real_ beneath you; the newfound freedom you have to press your lips to his whenever you wish or to lazily run your fingers across flushed skin that peeks out from underneath his rumpled shirt and feel abdominal muscles flex beneath your touch. It’s a peculiar feeling, this freedom--to love and act on it without reservation; to love and be loved in full in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Find me on [tumblr](https://renxzs.tumblr.com)!


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